All Who Wander
by Atypicall
Summary: It was supposed to have been a fun day out. When her plans go awry, Mary finds herself in the hands of an unknown enemy, not knowing if France would be coming to save her. She had never counted on what happened with him either, what feelings it would spur, and leave her questioning everything. Mash eventually, but it won't come easy. Will try to do right by Francis as well
1. Chapter 1

Title:

A/N: This may have just become my guilty pleasure of the season. Horribly inaccurate historically, but somehow I still love it. Picks up after the 4th episode.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.

OOooOoOoOO

Rain drummed down steadily. The night was a vacuous, inky black that seemed like it had swallowed whole all the light of the world. Every so often lightening sliced the sky, coloring the air bright white and purple in turns, allowing the future Queen of Scotland to observe the small clearing in which she currently found herself, water falling in steady streamers from the thick canopy of leaves overhead. She was exhausted, physically worn through, but sleep would not come. Mary was freezing, soaked to the marrow, shivering uncontrollably as she bit back tears.

She realized that tears probably didn't matter. Between the dark and the rain that plastered her hair to her head and washed down her cheeks like tiny rivers, she doubted anyone would notice a few tears. But she wouldn't give them the satisfaction, and she wouldn't allow herself to give in to the despair. That would be the easy thing to do, and nothing in Mary's life had come to her easy, without the machinations of others that sought to use her position and title to their own advantage. Like Tomas. That one still sat bitter on her tongue. It had worked out in the end to be sure, but not without loss of life, though thankfully not hers, or anyone she cared about.

Mary shifted her position as best she could, as the rough bark of the tree she leaned on bit into her right shoulder. Gritting her teeth, she drew her knees beneath herself and attempted to use her legs to right herself, but she found no purchase in the mud. The air smelled of damp, turned dirt and the earthy sweetness of decomposing vegetation. Her entire arm had gone numb, and the muscles between her shoulder blades had started cramping horribly. Biting her lip, she attempted again to flex her fingers, to manipulate her hands, to no avail. The ropes had swollen in the wet, cutting off circulation to her hands. A new wave of frustration rolled over her. If only she could free her hands...

The fleeting wish died a quick death. If only she got her hands free she would... what? Run? Flee, even though she had lost all sense of direction? The storm had come upon them quickly, but it had not stopped them. They rode on for hours into the gale and by her estimation it had to be past midnight. They were miles from the French Castle, deep in the woods, miles from anyone or anything familiar. Only one of them remained awake, a dark presence in a sea of shadows moving occasionally at the periphery of her vision. The rest slept in the driest spots they'd been able to find, wrapped in oilskins to keep most of the water at bay, and in that moment she bemoaned the loss of her hunting cloak.

The horses were tethered at the far end of the clearing, heads low and pressed together against the weather. They weren't even saddled, and she doubted very much that even if she could get free, that she could get aboard one of the animals quickly enough to get away. And what would they do to her then? As of the moment they had kept their hands clear of her, save for dragging her from her horse and binding her ankles and wrists.

Her companion had not been so lucky. He lay only a few feet away from her, ankles and wrists bound as well, though she saw him only for the brief moments that the lightening allowed her to see. He was still unconscious, his hair plastered to the side of his head, remnant of dried blood being splashed off his cheek. And Mary knew that even if, against all the odds, she were to get free and get to a horse, she could not leave him. Not when he had risked so much for her, fought for her, bled for her, a girl not even his own. Even so, staring in his direction she willed him to wake, to fix her with indomitable blue eyes, to let her know that she was not alone here.

The tears came then, mixing freely with the rain. What would become of her, of them? What did these men want? And what of the others? Had they fought their way clear, or were they all dead? How could this have happened? This morning she had been filled with such joy and elation. The sun had warmed her face and her heart, and for the first time since coming to Court, she'd allowed herself the belief that things were going to work out. So what had happened? How did she get here? And how would she get back out?

OoOOoooOOOoo

Chapter 1

Please tell me what you think! This is such a new fandom I'd love to hear what everyone thinks.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

A/N: Thanks so much to everyone that read this, and especially to those that took the time to review! I love hearing feedback, it's always so inspirational.

OoOooOOooo

The sharp crack of a branch breaking jolted Mary out of her light slumber. As cold and uncomfortable as she found her situation, eventually exhaustion had taken its toll, her eyes becoming too heavy to keep open. So in the last few hours before dawn, she had drifted in and out of an uneasy sleep. She straightened as she came awake, grimacing at one more new crick in her neck.

Dawn came hazy and gray, the eastern sun soft and muted. The rain had mostly moved on, leaving in its wake a heavy, lingering mist that coated everything in tiny droplets of moisture. It trapped the damp against her skin, and sank the cold into her bones. Swirling tendrils of fog wrapped between the trees. Were she in a different situation she might find it ethereal, but now, as their captors rose and milled around the clearing, she just found it ominous.

At her side Bash stirred for the first time all night. "Bash?" she prompted softly, eyes flicking between him and the others. "Can you hear me?" She worried her teeth across her lower lip. His face was still as gray as this morning. A low groan escaped out of parted lips and a scowl crossed his forehead. Then his eyes fluttered, half open. She waited, watching his face go from disorientation, to confusion, to understanding.

Then his eyes found her, and he offered her a wobbly smile. "I take it this was more adventure than you were counting on your grace?"

Mary allowed herself a glimmer of a smile. Cheeky, even in a situation like this. For some reason, it made her feel better. Then she sighed and closed her eyes, wishing for the first time since she'd arrived from Scotland, that she was back inside the relative safety of the French Court. She wished she'd not even thought to leave...

OooOOOooOO

The Previous Morning...

"You want to go hunting?" Kenna asked, one eyebrow arching upward on her brow. She popped a grape into her mouth. "And why would I want to go with you?"

Mary's face was alight, and she rose from their breakfast table to stand beside the window, gazing out past the walls of the castle. "It's not about the hunting per say," Mary tried to explain. "Think of it more as an opportunity for adventure. Don't you ever get sick of being here? Sitting around, being drawn into political games of intrigue and deception?"

"To be fair," Greer pointed out as she buttered her bread, "I very much doubt any of us would get sucked into games of intrigue if not for the company we keep." She grinned wryly at her raven haired friend, teasing.

It had been two weeks since the debacle that was Tomas. To think that she had nearly been married off to a man that saw her as no more than a piece of property, a pretty, silent doll meant only to sit at his shoulder. Married to a man who was cruel and cold of heart, willing to hurt and injure another to make a point. He could have killed Bash in the woods, had nearly killed him on the road, with his plan to leave Mart with no other choice than to renege on her commitment to Francis. Only half healed from his wound, Bash had risked his life for her, and for his brother. Francis.

Even thinking the name of her intended made her smile. In the days since the renewal of their alliance, Francis had been positively doting. Remembering the soft touch of his hand on her arm made gooseflesh rise on her skin. She felt her cheeks color pink as she recalled his lips on her own, possessive and tender all at once. He wanted her near to him, cared for her deeply, even if he wasn't ready to marry her. But for now, the wanting was enough. And she appreciated him all the more in comparison to Portugal's bastard.

He allowed her her freedoms, encouraged her ideas. And having faced the possibility of all that going away, she cherished her freedoms, limited as they may be, even more dearly. So when Francis had informed her that he and Bash had plans to go hunting that day, Mary had dropped a few none too subtle hints of her desire to go riding and get out of the castle, and Francis had been quick to invite her and her ladies along. She felt elated, and girlish, in ways she'd never experienced. Was this what it was to be in love?

"Be that as it may," Mary had the good grace to smile. "Are you sure you would not wish to come along? it's not as if you will have to shoot the buck yourself Kenna. We will simply be along for the ride."

"And you simply asked Catherine and King Henry, and they agreed to allow you, Francis and Bash out hunting?" Aylee questioned dubiously.

"Of course not. At least one of you has to go along as my escort." Mary shrugged, "And a half dozen armed guards..."

"Well," Kenna frowned, "isn't that just positively romantic?" She was paying only half attention to Mary. Her mind was elsewhere, more concerned with the interests of a King, than his princeling son. Diana had arrived back in court from their home in Paris three days earlier, and she found she missed Henry's bed, his touch, or really any attention from him at all.

"Oh, don't ruin her mood," Lola chided. "She's practically glowing, and has been all week, though i can't imagine why, being nearly attached to Francis at the hip lately." She smiled at her friends. "Worry not your Grace," she inclined her head to Mary, "I would be happy to accompany you on your ride."

Mary's grin widened. "Why thank you Lola. We shall meet Francis and Bash in the stables in an hour."

OOoOoOoooo

When they arrived at the stable yard later that morning, Lola and Mary found servants waiting in the yard holding Francis' rangy chestnut gelding, and Bash's burly black, tacked and ready, but neither of Henry's sons were in sight. The half dozen guards they had been promised waited, already mounted. Then they heard the sound of hooves reverberating on the stone floor of the stable. Francis came first, leading an tall gray, a wide smile gracing his features, his eyes only for Mary. Bash followed behind, leading a small, compact bay with a wide white blaze running down its face.

"My Lady," Francis greeted her. "I hope this morning finds you well. This will be your mount for the day, if she pleases you." He handed Mary the mare's reins and stepped aside. Mary was indeed pleased. The mare dipped her finely wrought head to nuzzle at Mary's hands, her ears tipped forward with interest. Her darkly dappled coat shone with good health and weight, and her legs were long and clean. She was equally as tall as either Francis or Bash's horses, but finer.

"She does indeed my Lord," Mary answered, maintaining their pretense of formality in front of the servants and guards, stroking the mare's neck.

Francis caught his brother's eye over Mary's shoulder and gave him a small nod. He was grateful to have had Bash's help in selecting the mare. As in many things in their life, Bash's freedom from the weight of an impending crown had afforded him the chance to learn many skills. One such skill was the sword, another horsemanship. It was a thing that Francis had once envied, and had learned to accept. And seeing the pleasure on Mary's face was enough for him to know that it was worth it. "her name is Leste," he told her.

Then Bash presented Lola with her horse, a charitable, if homely fellow. Henry's sons helped the girls mount before turning to their own horses. Francis fixed his quiver to his saddle, while Bash made a quick inventory of his bow, sword, and dagger. Overhead the sun blazed brightly, promising a blessed day. If only the warmth of the sun had been truth, rather than deception...

OoOOooOoOo

Mary's stomach growled, bringing her thoughts from the past into the present. She realized then that she hadn't eaten since yesterday's breakfast, not that she was sure she'd be able to stomach anything now.

Three men approached them, a tall man with a thick waist at their forefront. His face was long and oval, with deep set eyes and thin lips. Lank, oily, brown hair had been tied away from his face at the nape of his neck, though a few strands had pulled loose to cement themselves to his face. A garish white scar ran near the underside of his jawbone on the right side of his face. He had Bash's sword belt fastened around him, his hand resting lightly on the pommel. By the scowl that crossed Bash's face, Mary was fairly certain he had noticed it as well. Though he still had his hands bound behind him, Bash managed to sit up. He would not meet these men a supplicant laid upon his back.

"You would be a wise man to leave us be and go on your way," Bash spoke first, voice low. His eyes, which Mary usually found full of mirth and irreverence, had taken on a deadly serious cast, one she had seen before, on his father. Neither his eyes nor his voice wavered, bespeaking of a confidence Mary could not comprehend.

The man with a scar stooped, his forearms resting lightly across his knees so he could look Bash in the eye. "Then I am lucky," he said slowly, a vile grin pressing at his lips, "that I seek only to be a rich man. Which I will be," he nodded in Mary's direction, "as soon as I deliver her."

"You will not touch her!" Bash spat out, his vehemence turning the words into a snarl.

Their captors closed fist slammed into the side of Bash's head, sending him sprawling onto his side, new blood seeping out from his wound. He tasted dirt on his lips as the world spun crazily before his eyes and he heard Mary gasp beside him. She started to beg for his life. Bash closed his eyes and tried to focus. They had to get out of there, had to escape. He had to get Mary back to the safety of the palace, had to get her back to Francis. He concentrated, and realized with relief that the men had not found it on him, that they still had a chance, if they could luck their way into a moment.

"Please!" Mary shrieked as she saw the scarred man rear back to strike Bash anew. "Please don't hurt him!" Her heart slammed wildly against her ribcage, panic and fear spurring it on.

"You listen to me!" The man crouched again, thrusting his finger in her face. "You try to escape, he dies. You fight us, he dies. You scream, and he dies. Do we have ourselves an understanding?" Mary nodded quickly, lips pressed thin. "Good." He stood abruptly. "Get them on the horses!" he barked. "We ride out!"

The man on his right came forward and stooped, slicing quickly through the bonds on her ankles with a long knife. Saucer plate green eyes roved over her body hungrily before gripping her firmly beneath the arm to help her rise. With her bonds freed blood rushed quickly to her ankles, and the sudden rush of pain made the short walk to Leste seem to go on forever.

The other man, a giant brute with no neck to speak of, went to Bash and cut his ankles loose as well. He brought Bash to his feet as well, though not nearly as gently, hauling him up by the back of his waistcoat. Bash stumbled forward, being half drug, half led to his horse. Mary kept her eyes centered on his back. Whatever was going to happen, they were in this together.

OoOOOoo

Chapter 2

I think at least one more chapter is going to piece together the present with a flashback, til we're all caught up. Hope you're still enjoying this. Please let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

A/N: I'm so glad people seem to be enjoying this! I wanted to do something a little different than following along with the show. I'm going to try to incorporate some things that are going on in the show as well, but not have that be the focus.

OOoooOoooOo

The mood as the foursome left the castle grounds was light and jovial. The sky was cloudless and bright, a high window of cerulean above their heads. Smiles graced the faces of all, and Mary kept Leste close to Francis' chestnut, and they traded hooded glances and conspiratorial smiles. Bash and Lola left them to it, riding companionably just behind. A few yards behind them rode the castle guard, 6 strong, and content to leave them to their devices.

"Do you hope to get a deer today?" Lola asked. After having played nursemaid to Bash after his stabbing, the two had enjoyed an easy friendship. She found the King's eldest son engaging and warm, lacking in much of the pretenses that most nobles seemed to adhere to. If circumstances had been different, she knew she'd have been attracted to him, but her heart still ached with Colin's memory. She wasn't ready, wouldn't be, she guessed, for a long time.

"Perhaps," he said. "It will depend on what signs we find once we get to the game trails."

Lola's brow furrowed. "But I thought the game trails were over..." she craned her head over her right shoulder and pointed, "over there."

"They are," Bash said mildly. Lola cast him a quizzical look and his grin turned roguish and she nearly laughed. "But this time of year the bigger game tends to be sparse where we normally hunt, and there is a good, deep stretch of wood a few miles farther on. And a good flat stretch where Francis and I thought we might let our horses stretch their legs a little."

"A race?" Lola pressed, curious.

The corner of Bash's mouth curved upward. "We thought that you ladies might like to judge the victor."

"Oh really?" Now it was Lola's turn to grin. "We'll have to see about that." She nudged her horse into a trot, hurrying to catch up to Francis and Mary. Intrigued, Bash pushed his horse to follow. "Mary!" Lola called.

Tearing her eyes from Francis, Mary turned to address her lady in waiting. "Yes?"

"This stretch of road," Lola motioned with his chin to the flat swath of dirt ahead, "Francis and Bash thought they'd race down it. And that we'd play judge."

"Really?" Mary's dark eyes sparkled. "Hard to be the judge when we're beating you to the finish!" She planted her heels in the mare's sides and Leste jumped forward, long legs eating the ground. The wind whipped the hair back from Mary's face, her heart racing with exhilaration, knowing Lola was just behind her. She remembered her days as a child, racing her pony across the Scottish moors. Her skirts snapped in the breeze behind her as Leste's stride lengthened. She reveled in this feeling, it was like being free.

Francis and Bash exchanged a brief look of surprise as the two ladies set the horses down into a hard gallop without warning. Then, with an exhilarated whoop, they spurred their horses forward after them. Francis and Bash rode low over their horses neck, their hands buried in their flying manes. The geldings saw the two horses racing along in front of them, and were just as eager as their riders to close the gap between them. Francis' chestnut was game, but Bash's big black gelding began to inch ahead, first by a nose, then a head, until he began to steadily draw away. Bash was intent, his eyes fixed on the streaming tail of Mary's grey. The mare was fast, probably nearly as fast as his horse, Shade. After all, he had chosen the breeding for the mare with racing in mind. But the mare had never wanted to run with the kind of fire it took to win.

Still, as the horses swept along a wide, banking curve in the road, Shade continued to gain ground, drawing up on the flank of Lola's mount and then leaving him in his wake. Slowly, Shade gained his way up Leste's flank, until he'd drawn even with the leggy mare. Mary glanced over at him, a wide smile lighting her dark eyes with revelrous abandon, and for a brief, shining moment he saw her as the girl she could have been, if not for the crown. It was the same girl he'd seen by the lakeside when she'd first arrived, uninhibited and freely angry as she called his brother an arrogant ass. He realized he preferred her like that, without pretenses, the moments she allowed herself to be unaffected by court politics.

"To the wall!" He yelled out, the wind stinging his face and whipping the words from his mouth. Mary glanced forward again, seeing the stone wall next to the road that he meant no three hundred yards farther on and nodded. That was their marker. Her lips pressed into a determined smirk and she urged Leste even faster. It tickled Bash that she wasn't about to just let him win. Good. "Hya!" he called to his big gelding, his shoulders pumping as the two horses leveled out, flying together stride for stride. The wall was coming fast. Then, just when he thought they were locked in a dead heat, Leste found a little more, her ears pinned flat to her head, thrusting her head in front just as they flew past the wall.

The two riders drew their horses up then, turning them back down the road the way they'd come. Mary's face was filled with delight and she laughed, a soft, melodious sound. Leste jigged beneath her, tossing her head and arching her tail, obviously quite pleased with herself. Bash had the good grace to smile. He placed his hand on his chest and bowed deeply from his saddle. "Your Grace," he said, "that was well run."

Mary stroked the mare's sweaty neck. "She is marvelous!"

"Leste won't run for just anyone. She likes you." Mary beamed at him. "It is easy to understand why." The Scottish Queen looked at him sharply then, but Bash had already turned his attention to Francis and Lola, who were just coming up on them. "Little brother!" he called jovially. "Any slower and I'd have had to send out a search party for you."

"You've bested me again Bash," Francis admitted. "But unless I'm mistaken, I believe that my someday bride bested you, which might be even better." Bash's retort died on his lips when the French guard cantered up to them, the gruff, gray haired man looking not at all pleased with their impromptu race. This was a moment for diplomacy, Bash decided, and he raised his eyebrows at his brother. Francis sighed. Time to soothe some ruffled feathers.

OoOOoOoOOoOo

Bash blinked droplets of moisture off his eyes. The gruff Commander of the Palace guard had had some words for them all. As it turned out, they had been some of his last. He was dead, Bash had seen him go down in the scuffle, an arrow protruding from his throat. He hadn't even know the man's name.

Bash didn't struggle as they dragged him toward Shade. His legs were barely cooperating enough to keep him on his feet. His head screamed, pounding like a tightly pulled drum, and though he blinked repeatedly, he could not seem to focus his eyes. Everything swam into and out of his vision, and he felt like all the earth was rising up beneath his feet. It made him feel sick. As they neared the tethered horses he felt a hand at the center of his back shove him hard, and he stumbled into Shade's glossy shoulder. Another shove came between his shoulder blades. "Get on," the man said roughly.

"And how am I to do that with my hands tied behind my back?" he sneered.

"Well my Lord," sarcasm dripped from the man's tongue, "I'm 'ere to 'elp you wit that." Bash righted himself and craned his head to find Mary. She was only a few feet away beside Leste. Her at least, they had retied to her hands were at her front, and she could hoist herself up into the mare's saddle. She appeared calm at first glance, austere in her demeanor, but she was firghtened. He could see it in the way she held her mouth, in her eyes. Leste shifted uneasily beneath her, sensing something amiss. Another prod at his back. "Now," the man prompted.

Bash felt ridiculous as he balanced himself on one leg, his left foot missing its first pass at his stirrup. He managed to spear it on his second attempt, propelling himself upward with his right leg. He wouldn't have made it into the saddle but for the extra push one of the bandits gave him from the ground, and as it was he nearly toppled off the other side. The effort left him breathless, sweat upon his brow and the world spinning anew in front of his eyes. His stomach rolled, but he'd not eaten in nearly a day, so he just gagged, the muscles in his stomach clenching violently.

The other men mounted up. There were eight in all, he noted, his first chance to count them. The man with the scar that had spoken to them earlier was clearly the leader. The others deferred to him. He took up the lead on a rough coated bay with a thick neck. The man that had shoved him swung onto his own horse, Shade's reins in hand. They set off, heading deeper into the woods, the mists and shroud of the tree canopies overhead holding daylight at bay. A knot wound itself into the muscles between his shoulders. Each step took them farther from the palace, farther from French guards and the hope of rescue. But how could he save them when he barely had the strength to stand, when any quick movement of his head sent him into a dizzying spell. Bash grit his teeth against it all. It wasn't about saving them, it was about saving Mary. If he could do that...

His mother's words rang in his ears. "Be careful my brave son, or you will bleed for a girl who will never be yours." It was as good a prediction as any he'd ever heard from Nostradamus, maybe better.

OOoooOoOOooO

Chapter 3

Hope you guys are enjoying this! I'm sure enjoying writing it. Thanks so much for everyone who has taken the time to review, and a preemptive thanks to anyone that chooses to leave another.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

A/N: I loved the race scene too! I'm having a lot of fun with this. Please keep reading and letting me know what you think!

OOOooOOoOO

"You're hopeless," Francis mocked, amusement coloring his words, lips brushing close to her ear.

Her mouth fell open, then she pressed her lips into a pout. "I am not hopeless!" she protested vehemently, though she could see the humor in it as well. "I've just never done this before." She turned her head to catch a glimpse of him, the playfulness in his face. She bumped him with her shoulder. "Besides," she said lowly, so only he could hear, "you think your breath awash of my ear aids my concentration?"

"Not at all," Francis stated archly. "Which is half the fun."

Barely suppressing a grin, Mary brought the long bow back to level and nocked her arrow on the string. "Again," she told him. Francis nodded, circling around her as he studied her position, taking care to show her where to place her feet and position her shoulders.

"Take sight of your target down the length of the arrow," he instructed. The corners of Mary's eyes crinkled as she focused on the trunk of the tree some 15 yards ahead of her. She shut away everything but the knot at its center, the forest and the rest of the world muted from her senses. She drew back the bowstring, not a simple task, and she could feel the muscles in her neck and arms chord. Even Francis' voice faded, till she heard the words like they emanated from out of her own head. "Now breathe." She released the arrow. It sailed true, its fletching whistling as it traveled. A resounding thunk greeted her ears as the arrow imbedded itself in the bark, only a few inches from the knot.

"I did it!" she exclaimed brightly, her cheeks rosy, eyes dancing. On her left, clapping arose, and she spun to see Lola and Bash's polite applause.

"Excellent Mary, well done," Lola congratulated.

"Thank you Lola, but I do not distinguish myself nearly as well as you." She nodded toward Lola's intended target, a tree more narrow in its scope than the one Mary had chosen, littered with a handful of arrows in a tight grouping.

"Indeed," Bash agreed, "our fair Lola is quite a natural with the bow."

"Hardly," the curly haired girl protested, the she failed to hide all her pleasure at the compliments. "I told you Bash, I grew up with brothers. I'd have had a lonely childhood had I not learned to ride and shoot." She shook her head, her expression becoming distant as she recalled pleasant times with her family, before the fever had come. "Never could manage to learn the sword though," she told them. "I decided early on that a bow was more to my liking, as it kept my knuckles from being rapped by staves."

Francis and Bash exchanged a look. Growing up, a rap on the knuckles would have been a welcome admonishment for a slip with the sword. Bruises and broken bones had been more like it. Henry had always believed the best learned lessons were the harshest. Even now, sparring sessions were done in earnest, and both the sons of the French King had learned to keep their guards up.

A twig snapped somewhere nearby, and Bash swiveled towards the sound, his keen eyes narrowing as he searched the thick undergrowth. It was midafternoon, the fall sun's brightness waning as the early evening approached. The air in the forest had grown cooler, a faint breeze blowing through the trees, bringing with it the promise of moisture. Their foray into this part of the forest had not resulted in finding any recent signs of game, which was what had, in large part, led to the impromptu archery lesson. Not that Bash had minded, Lola and Mary made for good company. But they would have to head back soon, if they were to get the ladies and Francis back to the castle by nightfall. Still, he could stay on alone a bit longer, if something worth hunting were nearby. He moved toward his brother.

"You need to think about heading back," he said.

"But not you." Francis' lips thinned. It wasn't a question, he knew Bash better than that. He'd heard the twig breaking as well, and knew Bash hated returning from a hunt empty handed. He also knew their father would have little to say if Bash returned in the full fledged night, and plenty to say if he dared return after dusk. The familiar wave of envy surged through him, but Francis pushed it down. His brother just flashed him a grin. Francis sighed, turning on his heel to address the guards to ready the horses. Lola trailed after him, busying herself replacing arrows in a quiver.

"You do not plan to return with us?" Mary asked.

"I will be along after a time," Bash responded. "You may not even make the castle by the time I catch up."

"But we may, and you'll be out here alone, in the dark," Mary pressed. "Is that wise?"

"This is not the Blood Wood," he said. "And I hold no fear of the dark." His eyes twinkled and his smile broadened. "Or perhaps your Grace would simply prefer to stay in the dark with me, and see what trouble lies when the sun fades." Mary couldn't help the flush that rose to her face, the one she was sure Bash had been counting on. In the months she'd been at Court she'd grown accustomed to Bash's rather licentious teasing, but at times it still caught her by surprise. "You, your Grace, are positively scandalous."

Another twig snapped, this one closer, but from the opposite direction of the last. Bash's smile froze on his face, his eyes narrowing, his blood starting to rush more quickly in his veins. His hand drifted to the pommel of his sword. The hairs on the back of his neck had begun to stand on end. "Francis," he said quickly, eyes sweeping the trees, "I think..."

The first arrow whistled past his ear, close enough Bash could feel the air ripple. The second struck their taciturn, gray haired guard Commander. One moment he was occupied in a moment of conversation with Francis. The next, the head of an arrow protruded 4 inches clear out of his throat. Red. Francis saw red, as the man's throat exploded outward, showering him a rain of warm red droplets. over his face, his clothes, his hands. Shocked, Francis shuddered and froze.

The glen erupted in chaos, the shocked stillness lasting less that a moment. Francis blinked, and then went for his sword. From out of the trees they came, on all sides, a dark swarm of men, one after another, like locusts. Some had axes, some swords or pikes, all of them on horseback, exploding out of the underbrush. They scattered Shade, Leste and their other mounts. "Francis! Down!" Bash cried out in warning. His younger brother dropped to his knees just as the stroke of an axe flew past him. Had he still been standing it would have cleaved off his head. Bash surged toward his brother, only to be blocked by a man on a short, dark bay. Enraged, Bash dodged a blow from his short sword and leapt forward, grabbing the man by his shirt and running him through, his eyes barely leaving his brother. Francis was entangled with another rider, trading blows. The girls were screaming, but it barely registered. Bash's eyes met one of the guard. "Get him out of here, Now!" he screamed, thrusting his sword in Francis' direction.

By now only four of the guard were left standing, and one limped horribly on a leg skewered by and arrow. Three closed ranks around their prince, fighting their way through the melee toward the horses. To his relief he saw Lola with them. Then he saw Francis, eyes wide, fighting to break free of his own guards. Bash followed his brother's line of sight. Mary had broken for the tree line and the cover it would provide. She did not see the man on the chestnut careening toward her. Bash immediately gave up his efforts to get to the others and spun on his heel, sprinting at the dark haired girl. The sound of hoofbeats sounded like thunderous drums in his ears as he closed the gap between them. He hit her in a full run, his arms encircling her, his body pressed close to her as a shield. His momentum threw them mostly clear, but the horse clipped him with a shoulder, sending both Bash and Mary flying into the trees.

They hit the ground hard, scattering fallen leaves like a plume of smoke from a fire. Bash was on his feet again in nearly an instant, reaching down to pull a breathless Mary upright. Ahead, in the brush, he saw the shining brass of Shades saddle, and Leste's dappled flank. "Can you run?" he asked quickly, still holding Mary's wrist close to his chest. Though her face was pale as ivory, Mary steeled herself and nodded stiffly. "Then to the horses," he pushed her in front of him. "Go!" Mary gathered her skirts and dashed forward.

Bash was just behind her when someone hurtled into him with a deranged cry. He'd seen the man out of the corner of his eye when he broke cover, and Bash managed to twist away from the stroke of a sword that would otherwise have surely impaled him. He diverted the blow with his own sword, the two blades screaming as they sliced off one another. Bash bit back a grimace when he felt the tip of the other's blade slice through his breeches and into his thigh. With a yell, Bash grasped his weapon firmly in two hands and sliced the man open from navel to nose. Then he sprinted after Mary.

She was waiting aboard Leste, holding the fidgeting mare's reins short in her right hand. She had Shade's reins in her right. Sheathing his sword quickly, Bash grabbed them from her. "Ride!" he ordered her. "They come!" He could hear the crashing of the undergrowth all too uncomfortably close behind them. The way to the road was cut off. They would have to travel deeper into the woods, hope to lose them, or get around them. Indecision colored her face, undoubtedly thinking of the others, of Francis. Bash bounced once on his right foot and flung himself into the saddle. "Now Mary! Go!"

With a last pained glance the way they had come, Mary wheeled the gray mare and kicked her into a gallop. Shade was just behind them. The two horses galloped breakneck among the trees, leaves bursting beneath them. Their riders clung close to their necks, knowing the risks of such a wild ride, branches whipping at them from all sides, threatening to sweep them from their saddles, and able to do nothing more than trust that the animals would keep their feet. Black and gray raced stride for stride for the second time that day, but this time their was no exhilaration, only the guarded hope that they might come out of it alive.

OoOoOOooOoooO

The morning wore on, though the sun barely made a dent in the mists, still hanging thick and low, wrapping themselves like sheer cloth around everyone and everything. The trudged along doggedly, the bandits taking turns at the lead, hacking through sections of thick growth as they delved deeper and deeper into the wood, and farther from the road. They were headed South and East, Bash could tell by the moss that grew at the base of the tree trunks, always thicker on the South side. So they rode away from the English at Calais, but that was all he was certain.

They kept Bash and Mary carefully in the center, and Bash felt the eyes boring into his back. And he could see the eyes of the man leading Leste, roving over the form of the future queen. it set his blood to boil and Bash grit his teeth. At the present moment there was nothing to be done about it. Mary, for her part, resolutely ignored the man, though he was sure she felt his gaze.

The man with the scar stayed silent, swaying comfortably in his saddle. He craned his neck a few times to find Bash's eye, offering up an ugly smile, gloating and satisfied. There was something about him, something tugging at Bash's brain, a feeling of familiarity, but he couldn't place it. But it left him with a distinct feeling of unease.

Riding into a small clearing, the scarred man held up his hand for a halt. The riders drew the horses up, dismounting in silence, a routine to which they'd all obviously become accustomed. Bash's mouth thinned into a line. Mary found his eye, her face gone even paler than before. The man that had been leading Shade appeared at Sebastian's knee. "Git down," he barked.

"Actually I rather like my position at the moment. Much easier were I to decide to spit in your general direction." A rough pair of hands reached up, grabbing his left arm and a handful of his tunic, yanking him unceremoniously off Shade. Bash landed on his side, his shoulders screaming protest. Deliberately and with no small amount of effort, Bash dragged his knees beneath him and sat up, spitting dirt out of his mouth. "Too far?" With a growl, his captor hauled him to his feet and toward the center of the clearing.

The scarred faced man dismounted as well, and went to Mary. "Dismount your Grace," the order was given flatly and Mary complied without comment. "We stop to rest and water the horses here. You will have food as well. And should you need to relieve yourself, do so."

"Here?" Mary said, incredulous. She drew herself upright, her chin lifting stubbornly. Attacked, harassed, kidnapped and bound. She'd suffered enough indignities for one day. "I think not. You will allow me my privacy in this. It is hardly to much to expect, even from the likes of you," she said archly.

The two locked gazes, neither one willing to back down, his deep, dull brown eyes matching the intensity of her hazel. Then, surprisingly, Mary watched the corner of the man's mouth turn upward. He chuckled finally, his shoulders shaking in amusement. "You've got some backbone to you," he nodded to her. "I'll give you that. Benton," he addressed the man that had been leading Leste, "take your Grace at a distance she finds comfortable into the trees and let her do her business as she likes it."

The man was tall but seedy looking, his long narrow face pockmarked, his upper lip thin and pinched. Mary fought not to openly blanch at the hungry look he shot her as he took her arm and guided her into the thicket. Mary glanced over her shoulder. Bash stood erect, his jaw tight as his eyes followed her path. She broke their gaze when she nearly tripped on an exposed root, and set her mind toward paying attention to her feet.

Twenty yards outside the clearing the man stopped and released her arm. "Here," he said gruffly.

"You will turn around," Mary made it a command, not a question.

"I'm not supposed to let ye' out my sight," he told her, his breath hot and smelling rancid in her face.

"Well then we are at an impasse I am afraid, because I will not do what is necessary until you turn around. You have my friend," she said reasonably, "and your leader threatened his life should I run, so I won't."

The man sneered, revealing at set of crooked, yellow teeth. "Aye. Cenisold should have a might bit o' fun takin a pound of flesh outta that one." Mary kept her face passive at that new bit of information, but just barely. With a last, lecherous sweep of his eyes over her body, he complied. She managed to wait until he turned to let forth her repulsed shudder.

Doing what she had to do as quickly as she was able with several layers of dress and petticoat, for she did not want to be in alone in the company of this man for longer than was necessary. She smoothed her skirts as best she could with bound hands, and made a swipe at an errant lock of hair that had fallen over her brow as well. "All right. You may turn around."

The pockmarked faced man was at her side quickly, roughly grabbing her wrists. "That didn't take too long," he told her. He pulled her close to him, leaning close to take a whiff of her hair. "We've got time to it yet."

Mary pressed herself as far from the man as she was able. "Take me back, now," she said through clenched teeth. He reeked like alcohol, old and new. His other hand found her hair, pulling harshly on it.

"In a minute."

Fear took hold of the better part of her bravery, and Mary let loose a terrified shriek. The man's eyes, once lustful, turned angry. He slapped her once, hard, the sting of it bringing tears to her eyes, and she cried out again. His hand pressed over her mouth, "No more of that," he growled, pushing her back against the trunk of a tree. His other hand went from her wrists to her waist, clawing at her even as she struggled. Tears slipped freely from her eyes. She didn't know what to do.

In the clearing, Mary's frightened cry pierced the quiet of the men's routine. It sent a bolt of fear through Bash like nothing he'd felt before. The man with the scar grabbed his sword and headed for the sound, but Bash was quicker. Ripping free from the man that held his arm in a moment of terror filled strength, Bash bolted into the forest in the direction he'd seen Mary go. He could hear the angry yell of the scarred man behind him, hear him following, but even with his hands bound behind his back he didn't care.

His mad sprint brought him upon them quickly. Mary was pressed against a large oak, tears streaming down her face. The man who had led her into the wood had his hand clamped over her mouth, his hips pressing into her as his free hand roved over his chest. Bash saw red. He charged forward without another thought, lowering his head and shoulder like the bulls he'd seen in Pamplona. He caught the man just below the ribcage and charged through him, lifting the wiry man off the ground. As he fell, Mary's attacker grabbed hold of Bash's shirt, dragging him down as well.

Encumbered by his restraints, Bash could not get on his feet quickly, and advantage the other man took. As Bash struggled to rise, he brought a knee up, smashing it into his nose, and flipping him onto his back. Bash heard Mary cry out, though all he saw were stars in front of his eyes as his vision tunneled toward black. Then he felt the kick to his ribs, heard the bones crack, and that was the last of it he remembered.

OoOOoOOoOoOOOo

Chapter 4

We're almost caught up on timelines, though now Francis and Lola will come back into it, so it'll still be a split POV. Please tell me what you think! I may damage poor Bash in the story... maybe a lot...


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5:

A/N: Hehe, I'm glad you're all okay with a damaged Bash. Last night's episode killed me, though I was super happy they kissed. However, reading some boards I know there is some Sebastian hate going on for the kiss. But that was so not my take on it, I felt annoyed with Mary. She got drunk, wanted to be petty and vindictive (not without cause mind) and took advantage of Bash's feelings for her, which she was not unaware of beforehand because Lola told her! And she kissed him, not the other way around, at least the first time. And his face when she told him it was a mistake... ugh daggers. Okay, rant done.

OoOOoooOO

Mary and Bash kept their horses pressed hard through the woods. Branches lashed at Mary's face, leaving tiny, bloody marks upon porcelain skin. Twice Leste stumbled in the undergrowth, nearly toppling Mary out of the saddle, before drawing her shoulders beneath her and surging forward once again. Thick white lather coated the necks and haunches of both horses, sweat darkening her hide from pewter to the blackest iron. Foam flew from their mouths and their wide, gaping nostrils sucked in huge gulps of air, as the skin beneath turned bloody red from the exertion.

Bash knew both horses were nearly spent, having yet to recover from their race earlier that morning. If only the could back to the road. Even exhausted he was sure his two horses could outdistance the bandits sturdy, but slow mounts. There was not finer horseflesh in the realm than that which nickered in their stables at Court. Yet every time Bash thought they might be clear, enough to angle back toward the road at least, he caught sight of another rider beside them, blocking their way. They were being more than chased, he realized suddenly, they were being herded, channeled. But to where? And for what purpose?

He was not ready for the answer that came. On either side of their racing horses, the bandits pressed in closer, tightening their chute. Grim, Bash looked over one shoulder and then the other and then ahead, where he saw two men on horseback, positioned on either side of two large trees. Then, from beneath a thick blanket of dead leaves, a wide net suddenly sprang up in their path. The ropes comprising the net were thick and roughly hewn. Surprised by the sudden barrier, Leste nearly dropped to her haunches as she tried to stop, at the last moment ducking her shoulder and spinning to avoid hitting it. A startled cry escaped Mary's lips as she was propelled out of the saddle, petticoats flapping.

She hit the ground hard, striking first with her hip, then her back as her torso whipped around. The air expelled from her lungs in a whoosh, and she brought quaking hands to her middle and chest as she tried to draw air. "Mary!" Bash called. The single word prompted her to action, bringing herself to her feet. The net lay behind her, but it may as well have been a wall made of stone and mortar. Bash was a few yards away, attempting to keep three men at horseback at bay with his drawn sword. Gathering herself, Mary made to move for Leste, who stood nervously, one rein dangling down by the mare's knee. Her hair streamed behind her like a flag.

A man materialized on her right, from where Mary hadn't seen, but it didn't matter. There only chance was for her to get back on her horse. She darted sideways, away from groping, outstretched fingers. There was a jerk at her collar, he'd managed to snag the trailing hood of her cloak. Frantic, Mary writhed, managing to shrug one shoulder free of the hunting cloak and then an arm. She spun and ripped her other arm free, nearly tripping over her twirling skirts in the process. The man fell back, covered in the shroud of her cloak.

Her fingers just closed on Leste's dangling rein when another set of arms wrapped around her in a vice like grip, pinning her arms to her sides. "No!" Mary wailed. She'd been so close. She struggled against the grip, and the strong arms lifted her off the ground. Thundering hoofbeats descended down upon the spot where they struggled.

Bash swept his right leg over his saddle and hit the ground in a run, his sword still drawn. Face tight, he slammed the pommel of his sword into the crook of Mary's assailants elbow, forcing him to release his grip. Then he spun the man off her and buried the sword nearly hilt deep in his gut. Mary watched him do it without hesitation, without reservation, his expression set in one of steely resolve. His hand reached for hers, strong, callused fingers entwining with her long, delicate ones. To Mary it was all a blur, and before she knew what was happening they were running again, Bash pulling her along in his wake.

At once, Mary was grateful for Bash's presence. He was a bastion of unflagging strength and determination. When despair pressed in at her over their situation, she felt assured that he would keep it at bay, even when it was a task like holding back the tide.

Not that they ran far. Ahead of them, two horses appeared to block their way. Bash ducked away from them, heading off in the opposite direction, only to find two others in his path. Mary's hand tightened against his own, and he gave it a reassuring squeeze. On all sides they were hemmed in. One rider trained his bow on Bash, and he shuffled the Queen protectively behind him. His chest heaved as he sucked in deep gasping breaths of air. Overhead, he noticed the sky had darkened when he heard the first rumbling peal of thunder. He kept his sword raised, preparing himself for the inevitable. "Lay down your sword." The voice came as if from above, disembodied and booming.

Around them, every rider had a weapon leveled, be it sword, pike or bow. He was not so brave as to be a fool. He could not fight their way clear of this. He had tried, and he had been found lacking, story of his life. He felt Mary's hand close around his upper arm as she pressed herself close to him. Muscles chorded along his jaw as he thrust the blade of his sword into the ground before him. Not one of the riders moved.

"Hello, Bastard Son of Henry," the disembodied voice said it like a title, something noteworthy, and he said it from behind Bash's shoulder. The eldest son of Henry didn't even have time for a glance before the blow came, striking hot and fast at his temple. He felt the first wash of blood sheet down the side of his face, at the same time he felt the first drop of rain, and then there was nothing.

Mary heard the voice as well, felt Bash's grip go slack in her own as his knees buckled and he crumpled bonelessly to the ground. Her blood pounded icy beneath her skin as she turned to face a man with lank, greasy hair, and a pronounced white scar on his chin. Cool gray eyes evaluated her where she stood, and he gave a low, mocking bow from his waist. "Hello your Grace, Queen of Scots. It is my honor."

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Mary sat with her back against a tree, staring blankly before her. It was nearing dusk, and the group of bandits had laid up for the evening. She could hear the faint gurgle of fresh, running water nearby. She said nothing. Acknowledged no one's gaze. What little she had been given to eat tasted like no more than sawdust upon her tongue, and just as dry. They were more than 24 hours removed from their initial attack, and there were no signs of French troops coming to their aid. She didn't even know if Lola and Francis had made it back to Court to inform King Henry what had happened. Perhaps they were captured as well. Perhaps they were dead. The thought halted her fingers, which had been absently stroking the hair of the man whose head she cradled in her lap. Bash, who was so full of life and vitality, lying so still and pale on the wet ground.

"Don't stop," Bash's husky, scratchy voice reached Mary's ears. "I know what it is to be in heaven." Her chin dropped to gaze down into Bash's cerulean eyes, half open, taking her in from beneath hooded lids. "For now I know what it is to wake in the arms of angels."

"You flirt even when you're waking from being knocked senseless," she said dryly. "Bash, you are incorrigible." She tried to keep her voice stern, but she couldn't help the pull at her cheeks, lifting the corners of her mouth into a smile. "And at a time like this no less." Better to scold him, than acknowledge the pleasant flutter of relief that washed through her at the sound of his voice. More than relief, even, if truth were told.

"A time like what?" Bash shut his eyes, in no hurry to raise his head from her lap, or give her any reason to cease running her fingers lightly through his hair. It sent such pleasant chills through him after all. "When my every fantasy is coming to life? Why should I stop then, of any time?"

"I had to beg for your life you know," she told him. "Twice now."

"Can't bear to be without me?" He tilted his chin toward her without opening his eyes.

"More like can't bear to tell your brother that I saw you slaughtered," she replied quickly.

When Bash did not immediately reply, Mary looked down upon him hurriedly, concerned that he had passed out once again. She found his eyes fixed upon her, laced with some emotion she couldn't quite identify, but left her flustered just the same. "Francis," he said slowly, "would surely regret any loss of life, yours or mine."

Finding that though his ankles were bound once more, his hands had been tied in front of him, leaving it a small effort to rise from where he had lay, away from Mary's touch. Blood pounded in his ears as he righted himself, dark spots swimming in front of his eyes as he swayed dangerously. And Mary was there, her hands a steadying presence on his shoulder. "Go easy now," she said gently. "You've taken quite a few blows."

He waited a moment for his vision to clear. "What happened?"

"One of Cenisold's men took me so I could perform some private ablutions." Bash nodded, that much he could recall. "But he was drunk and he... he pressed me."

"You screamed," Bash affirmed.

She nodded. "Next thing I saw was you barreling out from behind some trees. You fought, and he knocked you unconscious. Cenisold was just behind you, saw the whole thing..." she trailed off.

"And then?" he pressed. He needed her to talk, needed to focus on her voice rather than the pain. It hurt to sit upright, the pounding in his head nearly unbearable. It hurt to breathe.

"Cenisold slit his throat for touching me," she said plainly. He searched her face, but she had her expression locked down in the schooled veneer of a courtier. It was a sure sign that she was troubled. She lost herself in thought for half a moment and then changed the subject. "Be still," she directed him, reaching down for a worn piece of cloth Bash recognized from his own shirt. "I did what I could to clean you up, but your face is still a wreck." Though still bound, he found her hands to be exceedingly gentle as she dabbed his face with the scrap of his shirt. Her fingers lightly probed the bridge of his nose. "It's split," she told him, "but not broken I should think. You'll have a bit of a scar."

"Will it stop the ladies at Court from fancying me?" he queried. "I'd hate to think my face a ruin that would scare them away."

Grateful to be back to their easy banter, Mary responded without thinking. "I don't think there is much you could do that would stop the ladies at Court from fancying you." The moment the words left her mouth her cheeks flushed red, as she realized how closely they came to being inappropriate. She hoped with the falling dusk that Bash would not notice the change to her color.

He shot her a lopsided grin. "Good to know."

Her fingers curled over the scrap of cloth. "They may stay clear of you for a bit. Your eyes are both quite black, and it rather looks like you're wearing a mask."

"Aren't we all?" The weight of his words caused her to pull back, but Bash reached out, catching her wrists. He pulled her closer, ducking his head and leaning into her, trying to ignore the way her hair tickled his nose, or the soft fullness of her lips. "Mary," he said lowly, for once dropping the pretense of 'Your Grace' in favor of her name. "Do you trust me?" he whispered it.

Flustered by such a question, and by the sudden rush of heat the merest brush of his lips evoked over her skin, Mary searched for a response. "Do... I... well... of course I trust you."

"Good. Then stay close to me tonight." His eery, intense eyes pressed at her. "I have a plan."

OooOoOOooOoo

Chapter 5

Okay, promise, next chapters will have Francis and Lola and the rest. I want to say how much I appreciate everyone who is following this, and who has left a review. I'm having a lot of fun writing this, hopefully you're having as much fun reading!


	6. Chapter 6

Chaoter 6:

A/N: Thanks everyone for reading! I find Mary/Bash interaction pretty natural and easy to write. Having a little harder time with the rest, but it'll come. And I'm glad you all are appreciating the rather slow development of the Mash. I couldn't see my way for them to just dive into being passionately in love. Drunken kiss is one thing, but I want this to feel real.

OoOooOOOoOOo

Ten riders had left French Court earlier that day. But with the fading sun blotted out by masses of dark clouds, and great peals of thunder rolling across the landscape, only four returned. The rain was drenching and the night already deeply black, accented by the occasional flash of lightening. Flanked by guards at either side, Francis and Lola rode back into the French Court at a steady canter.

Francis was stone faced, his complexion ashen, as he dismounted and handed his gelding off to a waiting stable boy. Lola kept watch of him, gauging his temperament. To say that he had not been happy to leave the forest and retreat for the castle would have been a grievous understatement. But they had been outnumbered, severely, in truth had barely made it out at all. Three more of the King's men had sacrificed their lives for their Prince, one throwing his body in front of the Dauphin's just before a pike could skewer the young Prince like a pig on a spit. Francis was not so selfish as to sacrifice the rest of his men for his own personal agenda, a fool's errand at best, though he knew each and every one would have stayed at his side until the end. But they could not have reached her, they'd all have died in the attempt. They were cut off from Mary and Bash, they were outflanked and outnumbered. So they ran. Two guards went with Francis and Lola, while two had stayed behind to provide them cover and time. They had not survived it.

Francis started to stalk toward the castle, but then, remembering himself, paused and turned to address his two remaining men. He breathed out a deep sigh, the fervor in his eyes momentarily abating into something softer. "Thank you," he said sincerely, looking at each guard in turn, " for your service to the Crown today. You and your fellows... equipped yourselves well." Lips pressed thin, he nodded to each, and then resumed his trek to the castle. He did not apologize for the loss of life, though he felt it in his bones. Leaders didn't apologize, Kings, did not apologize.

Francis headed straight for the throne room, where he knew Henry would likely still be in talks with his advisors. Lola trailed along in his wake, trotting to keep up with the long sweep of his stride, her skirts gathered up in her hands. "You don't have to come with me," Francis said over his shoulder.

"She is my Queen, and Bash is my friend. I will see this through with you," Lola said determinately.

As they passed the drawing room, Kenna made her way into the hall. She rubbed the center jewel on an elaborate necklace that lay upon her chest, her head down. Kenna's eyes flicked furtively up and down the hall, till they landed upon the Prince and Lola. "Lola!" she exclaimed, her chin snapping up. "We had expected you back before this. You missed dinner," she was talking quickly, filling up empty spaces with words so Lola couldn't ask where she was heading. "You should have seen Lord Efrain, had too much wine and..."

"Excuse us Kenna, but I have not the mind for gossip at the moment." Lola told her friend.

Kenna's brow furrowed. "What do you mean? Where are Mary and Bash? Why are they not with you? Has she retired? Has something happened?" Kenna trotted up to Lola, placing a hand on her upper arm. "Lola, tell me what's going on."

Francis and Lola exchanged a quick look. "We are going to the throne room to speak with my father," Francis explained, never slowing his pace. "We were ambushed while out hunting. Mary and Bash were... separated." it was a dissatisfying answer at best, but it was all he could give.

"Lola, you don't think..."

"No!" Francis and Lola said in unison.

"We are going to the throne room to speak with my father," Francis said. "He will need to send out troops, start a search and..."

"He's not in the throne room," Kenna said suddenly, her feet halting suddenly as if without her volition. The other two stopped as well, turning to look at her. "He's in his bedchambers," she told them.

"How do you know..." Lola's question tapered off. Even in the dim light of the hall, her face illuminated only by flickering torches, Kenna's face had flushed a deep scarlet. "Oh Kenna..."

Next to the two girls, Francis cleared his throat. "Well then, I suspect my father will be quite surprised to hear his page announce all three of us." Looking rather grim, Francis turned on his heel and marched the opposite way down the hall. Lola took Kenna's hand in her own, and followed.

Waiting for the King to grant them an audience felt like it took an eternity. Francis paced, ringing his hands and running a nervous hand through blonde tresses. Kenna remained uncharacteristically quiet. It was left to Lola to fill the void. "They will be all right my Lord," she assured Francis, her tone as calm as she could manage. "You saw them as well as I. They made it to their horses. They have a chance."

"If Mary is hurt..." Francis began, his feet whipping him in a small circle. "If she dies... I never should have invited you along." He said it mostly to himself, his head giving a furious shake.

"You could not have known," Lola placated. "Mary will be well. She is with Bash. He will not let any harm befall her." There was truth behind her words, but still, she felt uncomfortable voicing them. Bash would die for Mary. He had proven it, with the fiasco that had been Tomas. Much as Bash loved Francis, and it was obvious to all that he did, he had displayed uncommon devotion to his future Queen. He'd proven it time and again, from fetching Sterling from the Blood Wood, to searching for Colin, to riding out for French troops to aid the Scottish. One could make the argument that Bash had done all of it for Francis, but Lola had seen the way Bash looked at her, the singular, captivated focus that was Mary. And she saw the way her Lady had become accustomed to his assistance, seeking him out when she was in need of aid. She just wasn't sure if either of them had realized it yet, and she wasn't sure what it meant.

Lola didn't get a chance to ponder the question further. The King had beseeched them come.

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The second night of their captivity had fallen, a heavy canopy of black thrown over everything. The watch fire had burned down to embers, glowing faintly red. The sky was at least clear that night, the nearly full moon washing everything in a silvery haze. It wasn't raining, but the clear night trapped no warmth from the day, and the breeze brought with it a bitter chill. Half closed blue eyes took it all in, biding his time. After the incident earlier in the day, there had been no further disruptions. Cenisold's decisive action had made it clear to the rest of the men that insubordination would not be tolerated, and Mary was not to be touched.

The bandits made camp again at dusk, not that Bash had been conscious to see it. He'd traveled the rest of the day slung over Shade's back on his stomach, a fact of which his damaged ribs were only too happy to inform him. He'd woken in Mary's lap a short time after they'd stopped. The prisoners had been given a few swallows of water and a heel of stale bread. It had been the first food or drink Bash had consumed in nearly a day and a half. He'd eaten it ravenously, but the portion was so meager it did little than aggravate his stomach, flaring his hunger anew. After they'd eaten Cenisold had their hands trussed once again behind their backs.

It was a terribly uncomfortable position to be in, and a knot in Bash's hip yearned for him to move. But moving would surely have disturbed Mary, who slept peacefully, her head dipped onto his shoulder, her body curving softly against his side, so he refrained. Her hair obscured her face, loose tendrils spilling down his chest. He thought if his hands had been before him instead of behind, he would not have been able to stop himself from brushing the hair off of her soft, pale cheek. So perhaps it was better to be bound, than allow himself to give in to such temptation, such an intimate gesture.

He waited. The two sentries Cenisold had placed on guard slowed their pacing. One sat down by the dwindling fire, and soon his head was dipping toward sleep. Bash tilted his head down towards Mary's ear. "Mary," he whispered. "Mary." He lifted his shoulder, gently bumping her awake. Long, dark, eyelashes fluttered open. "Shhh," he admonished quietly, before she could speak. "Are you ready to be rid of our nefarious friends here?"

Mary righted herself from Bash's shoulder, blinking sleep from her eyes. "Absolutely," she said, voice firm and strong.

Bash nearly smiled. She was strong, he had known that since her first day at court. But this was an unflagging resilience he had yet to have seen tapped in her. He admired it. "I need you to do something for me," he told her. Mary steeled herself and nodded. "Can you reach my boot?"

"Uh... perhaps?" Puzzled, but willing to do as he asked, Mary scooted herself, quietly as she could manage, so her back was pressed up against Bash's raised knees. Bending forward at the waist, her fingers probed blindly down his leg until they found the top of his boot.

"That's it," Bash encouraged. "Can you reach inside?" He kept a watchful eye trained on the sentries, neither moving, or seeming to pay them any mind. Mary's arms and shoulder screamed in protest at the unnatural position she had taken, but he grit her teeth and persisted. Working her fingers into the soft leather, she probed downward, until she felt a hard object beneath her fingers. She fumbled for it, felt it slip from her grasp for a brief moment, before she dragged it clear. It was a dagger, small, and sheathed in a leather scabbard. Mary almost laughed.

"You had this all along?" she asked quietly.

"I keep it there for... unforeseen complications," Bash explained. Mary let out a soft chuckle. She could only imagine at what 'complications' Bash would get himself into. "And yes, I did. Hardly seemed useful to try and fetch it before this. Now," he scooted himself in the dirt, ignoring the shooting pain in his side, until his back was pressed against hers. "let's see what we can do about these ropes." Mary nodded in agreement, freed the dagger from it's sheath, holding it downward awkwardly in her right hand, while her left searched for Bash's bonds. Then she used to dagger to begin to saw at the ropes, her tongue pressed hard against her lower lip in concentration.

Though the rope was thick and tough, the dagger was sharp, sliced fibers peeling away from the rope's core with every small stroke she managed. Twice she heard Bash suck in a quick breath as she slipped, and the knife nicked his skin. His blood trickled down over the ropes and the knife, making its management all the more difficult. "I'm sorry," she tried to apologize.

"Don't," he cut her off quickly. "Keep going." Finally, after a few more anxious moments, Bash felt the ropes go slack against his wrists. Quickly, he brought his hands to his front, rubbing blood back into his limbs before taking the dagger from Mary's hands. He made quick work of the ropes around his ankles, and then set to freeing Mary as well. He brought his feet under him in a crouch, his left hand gripping Mary's shoulder. "Stay here," he ordered lowly. "Don't move, and stay quiet til I come for you." Then he was gone, as quickly as a ghost into the ether.

Mary peered into the darkness, eyes narrowing as she sought which way Bash had gone. She thought she saw the shadows shift behind the sentry that leaned against a tree, but decided she'd been mistaken, until she saw the man slump slowly to the ground. He was easier to see as he crept up behind the man sitting beside the fire pit, shoulders low, steps slow and cautious. The strike of the dagger was swift and sure, paring open the man's throat before he could even make a noise. She couldn't help herself, she grimaced and looked away. She'd never seen someone killed like that before, in the quiet, in the dark. It made her feel ill, even though the better part of her knew it was necessary.

When she opened her eyes again, she did not see Bash, not even his shadowy silhouette. Everything was still. Nothing moved. The seconds ticked onward. She felt like she could scream, her fingernails digging into the flesh of her palms as she waited. And then he as beside her, the soft touch on her arm making her start. He'd managed to find a sword, probably from one of the men he'd just killed. She found it hard not to pull away from him. She couldn't fathom it, couldn't reconcile his soft touch with the quick pull of a knife across a throat. Couldn't make sense of the easy smile and the stern frown. He must have seen it there, in her face, because instantly his eyes became sad. "I'm sorry you saw that." And she knew he meant it. Not because of her sensibilities, but because it changed how she looked at him.

She touched his cheek with one cool hand. The taking of life was a serious thing, and she could see in him that it gave him no pleasure. "You do what is necessary. I cannot judge you, only thank you for shouldering such a weight." Bash sighed. He took her hand from his cheek, clasping it gently. Then he pressed the dagger, back in its sheath, into her palm. She took it calmly, slipping it into her bodice between her breasts. For unforeseen circumstances. Bash managed a small, tight lipped smile that did not reach his eyes.

"Come," he directed, taking her hand again. Gathering what skirts she was able in one hand, Mary allowed him to help her to her feet. Then the two crept quietly around the perimeter of the camp, to where Bash had quietly saddled Shade and Leste. Mary's heart pounded in her chest. This was their one chance. And if they did not manage it now, it would mean Bash's life. She prayed silently for their success. They were nearly to the horses, passing by the last of the men, asleep on his bedroll, when one of the bandits horses whinnied loudly. The man started at the sound, and Mary found herself frozen, staring into a set of disbelieving, wide, brown eyes. Then he let out a call, sounding the alarm, and Mary felt their hopes dash on the ground like shattered glass.

OooOOOooOO

Chapter 6

I was unsure of where to leave this chapter, but this seemed like a good spot. Hope you all continue to read and review! Thanks!


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7:

A/N: So very very happy that all of you are enjoying this, and I'm glad you feel like I'm staying true to character, I think that's really important, at least until you've give reason for a characterization change. Really, truly, having a lot of fun writing this.

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Mary felt her heart plummet the moment the bandit's eyes snapped open. His hand snaked out from beneath his bedroll, fastening like an iron shackle around her ankle, and then yanked back toward himself. Off balance and with one leg pulled from beneath her, Mary fell hard onto her knees. Her hand came free of Bash's, palms scraping on loose dirt and rock. Mary stifled the cry that threatened to escape her lips, not that it would have mattered much. The man's yell had managed to rouse the entire camp, though the heavy haze of lingering sleep made the response slow.

Fear gripped her, wrapping itself around her chest. Not fear for herself, but for Bash, her stalwart protector though this trial, risking his life even now to see her escape. She was reasonably sure Cenisold wanted her alive and equally as sure that he kept Bash breathing out of some perverse sense of amusement. She would not have Bash's death on her conscious, could not bear the though of his loss, of what it would do to Francis, what it would do to her... Desperate, and knowing that time was of the essence, Mary struck out wildly with her other foot, catching the man on the side of his head. His fingers loosed their hold and she scrambled away, fingers tearing into wet earth as she lurched to her feet. Bash's strong hands caught her shoulders as she was halfway up, propelling her along the rest of the way.

The horses were waiting just beyond the edge of the campsite. Bash crouched at Este's shoulder, holding out his cupped hands. "Hurry now," he prompted. A fistful of Este's mane in one hand, Mary stuck her left foot in Bash's waiting grip. With a grunt he thrust her upward, skirts rustling as she threw a leg over the tall mare's back. Once seeing her settled in her saddle, Bash hurried to Shade. Behind them the camp was a flurry of activity, and Bash could hear Cenisold's angry yells, though he could not discern the words, nor did he try, for they mattered little.

Cenisold stood at the center of the camp at the start of the melee, waking more quickly than the rest. He stared fixedly at the lifeless eyes of his sentry, blood already gone dark on his throat. Fury welled up inside him. So much incompetence. So much trouble. He was done with all of it, done trusting tasks to be completed by his subordinates. They had failed him. To make it worse, Henry's firstborn was proving cannier than he'd anticipated, his mistake, and one he aimed to rectify. He halted one of his men with a quick gesture, taking the bow from the man's hands and an arrow from the quiver on his back. The young man had his foot in his stirrup, bouncing lightly as the big gelding took off at a trot after the gray. His employer wanted the Queen out of the way, he'd said nothing of the boy.

Cenisold nocked the arrow and lifted the bow in the precise, deft action of a man accustomed to a weapon. His gaze narrowed, face pinched into something stern and terrifying. Then he loosed. His arrow sailed true, as he knew it would. The man with the scar allowed himself a slow building, feral grin as he watched the bastard heir to France jerk in his saddle as the projectile find its mark, and then slump forward. It was done. Now all he had to do was saddle his horse, and collect his prize.

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King Henry stood for a long time, his hand pressed over his mouth. Water dripped off both his son and the Lady Lola, pooling beneath them in an ever growing puddle. Each droplet that fell made a tiny splash, like they were accenting each passing moment in time, an interminable wait for the two that stood before him. They had told him the story in detail, Francis speaking quickly, Lola adding a word here and there. And he'd listened in stony silence, his countenance revealing nothing of himself.

His castle had borne witness to a tumultuous series of affairs since the arrival of the Queen of Scots. It hadn't been quiet before that, he knew, but it had been manageable. His sons, had been manageable. Even Sebastian, who dared flaunt rules and etiquette and propriety, had managed to do so with nary a scratch, before Mary. Bash, his firstborn, who reminded him of the best of himself and Diane, unburdened by title, who he'd watched grow into a good man, if perhaps a little reckless. And where had it gotten him? Fleeing for his life in the woods, putting his life in danger for the sake of Henry's alliance. The King stopped himself. He was being a fool, sentiment intruding on his reason. He wouldn't allow it.

"I will send a company of men at first light," he announced.

"At first light?" Francis took a step forward. It wasn't enough. There wasn't time to waste. Mary's life was endangered. They had to be decisive, they had to act now. "That is too long," he said boldly. "We need to..."

"We need to do nothing," Henry cut him off, his voice rising in a booming crescendo, his chest expanding as he faced his son. "What good do you think it would do? Sending out men in the dark, in this storm?"

Francis clenched his jaw, both knowing and hating that his father was right. Truth lay bitter on his tongue. The King's men were not trackers, and the storm would obscure the signs. Bash was the tracker. "Then in the morning I request to go with the men," he said abruptly. "I can lead them to where the attack occurred, help them find signs of their flight."

"You will do no such thing," the King returned sharply. "Do not act a fool Francis. You have no business in those woods. Your obligation is to your country, and for that you must remain safe. To go after bandits..."

Lola hid her grimace. This was getting them nowhere, certainly not any closer to finding Mary and Bash. Of course, their straits could have been even more dire, had any of the bandits bothered to pursue them out of the woods and back to the road. It hit her then, a slam on her senses that left her cold. "They weren't bandits," Lola said suddenly. She clamped her mouth quickly shut, realizing that she had interrupted the King.

Prince and King fell to silence, the weight of their eyes making Lola shift nervously. Even Kenna, seated on a chair behind Henry, glanced to her sharply. "What makes you say that?" Henry asked.

"Firstly, a group of road bandits would probably bypass a target under an obvious armed royal guard."

"Go on."

"They did not follow us my Lord," she said simply. With each word that passed from her lips she became more sure of herself, her theory. "We were overwhelmed and outnumbered and we fled back to the road. But we had no pursuit, which they could have easily made. They had no interest in us. They went after..."

Francis' face was ashen. "Mary..."

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Mary and Bash rode through the woods at a fast canter, angling toward the sounds of rushing water on their left. Mary's heart still thudded against her chest, but the terror had seeped from her, enough so that her senses were restored. The ground swelled upward beneath the horses, thickly undergrown, and Mary slowed her mount to a deliberate trot. If they lamed Leste or Shade now, it could mean their end. She forced herself to take a steadying breath and glance over her shoulder for signs of pursuit. Cresting a rise, the ground dropped away steeply on the other side, into a stream bed. Water rushed freely, swirling and eddying around rocks and other debris from the recent storm.

Though neither Cenisold nor his company were in sight, she noticed something equally concerning. Bash rode at their flank, but his head was bowed, shoulders slumped forward as if in exhaustion. "Bash?" she called softly. "Are you all right?" She reined Leste back farther, drawing even with his gelding.

With what seemed like an exceptional effort, Bash raised his head. His brow was adorned in a crown of sweat, slicking his unruly brown hair to his head. His expression was distant and unfocused, his skin clammy and gray. "Positively delightful, you Grace." He attempted a smile, but merely swayed in the saddle as if after one too many glasses of wine. Mary frowned. He held the reins and the pommel of his saddle with his left hand, his upper arm curved close to his ribs. His right arm bent across his stomach, his hand protectively holding his side.

"Bash, Bash stop," Mary laced the words with authority. He looked at her, blinking as if he did not see her. Reaching over her saddle she grabbed Shade's reins and pulled him to a halt. Bash lurched forward in the saddle, a soft gasp escaping his lips, his head lolling forward as if he no longer had the strength to hold it upright. Concerned, Mary grabbed the shoulder of his doublet, levering him back to vertical. Still balancing him in her right hand, Mary reached out with her left and pulled his arm away from his side. He didn't resist.

Dampness coated her fingertips, warm and sticky, and with a sick feeling growing in the pit of her stomach she recognized the metallic scent of blood. The thigh of his breeches was dark with it. Peering beneath his lifted arm, Mary had to stifle a gasp. There, just beneath his armpit, protruded the head of an arrow. Riding to the front as she had been, she could not have seen the fletching emerged from his back, and he had hid the wound from the front from her. "You'd have stopped," he said slowly. "And we'd have been caught, and I'd be dead anyway. At least now, you have a chance." She felt his right hand slide up over the hand she had on his shoulder, offering comfort even now. "Known that the price paid is not so dear to me, as to see you safe."

"Oh Bash." Tears sprang into Mary's eyes and a sob threatened to rip free. She wouldn't have this, wouldn't let it end like this. She sucked in a quavering breath, and gave a fierce shake of her head. "No!" she declared harshly. His eyes widened a little in surprise at her vehemence. "You cannot give up now," she told him. "I still need you to see my way clear of this, do you understand me?" She lent strength to her words, marking them the command of a Queen.

"I am not a member of your Court," he reminded her with a thin smile. "You cannot give me orders."

"Well I'm giving them anyway." she said archly.

Bash shook his head, grinning despite his pain. "You are uncanny."

Mary craned her head, looking around as if her options might lay themselves at her feet somehow. "And I'm not leaving you, if that's what you're after."

"All right," Bash nodded. "If that's the way it is to be."

"It is," she confirmed, straightening in her saddle, her hands coming back into her lap, now stained red with his blood.

Bash steeled himself, her resolve lending him strength. His tongue licked out over cracked lips and he nodded to himself. "Then we need to find a place to hide." With a cluck of his tongue and a nudge of his heels, Bash aimed Shade down the embankment and into the swollen stream, Mary and Leste close behind.

OooOOoOooOOOo

Chapter 7

This was either going to be super long, or a bit short, so I opted for getting a shorter chapter out sooner. Enjoy, and thank you for reviewing!


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8:

A/N: Episode 6... just... episode 6. OMG, no way, holy hell. I did not suspect Diane, and poor Bash, warping the character of a good man to take care of two of the only people in the world he cares for. I think I cheered and then felt torn up for his character in like 2 minutes flat. And then of course Francis... wha... he... gah. I really like both brothers, which sucks, because it makes it hard to choose a side, but Francis made it a little easier tonight.

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The horses slid their way down into the creek bed, noses aloft as they sank onto their haunches down the hill. Bash's knuckles were bone white as he gripped the pommel of his saddle in his left hand, and the cantle in his right, doing what he could to minimize the jarring to his injured side. Which, in the end, helped little at all.

Bash rode Shade straight in the middle of the rushing stream, the water surging up and around the horse's cannons. The stream was fast, but not overly deep, which meant it would do little to hamper their speed. "Come," he motioned Mary with his chin. The Queen quietly urged the balky gray mare onward, the mare snorting with each step as if indignant, but soon they were next to Bash. "We'll head this way," Bash pointed down the riverbed.

"But that's South," Mary said, her brow knitting in consternation. "The castle, and the King's Road lie north, upstream." Bash didn't quite manage to hide his surprise. He hadn't figured on Mary having such a keen sense of direction. "You seem perplexed," she said, lips puckering into an annoyed pout. "Shocking as it may be to you Bash, I can look overhead and see which way the sun travels across the sky. Which makes that South, and that North. It does not take a scholar, or a tracker, to know you would lead us away from home."

Tightness pulled at Bash's cheeks, but he refrained from an outright grin. "I apologize," he conceded, bowing his head. "I should remind myself more often that I should not underestimate Your Grace, a lesson that it seems, bears repeated teaching."

"So then why South?"

"Cenisold too, knows which way the castle lies. I'd wager he can track as well, a useful skill for a man in his occupation. He will expect us to make directly for the castle. He will have his men ride ahead, looking to block our way to the King's Road. So we go South instead, follow the river for a time, before turning for the coast and come at the castle across country from behind them."

His logic was hard to argue, so Mary nodded and turned Estee to face the same direction as Shade. "Well then, lead on, my intrepid wanderer." Bash managed a weak smile, then clucked to his gelding, who shifted into a ambling, and unfortunately still excruciating walk. They stayed to the middle of the stream bed, leaving no sign of their passing, and Bash kept his eyes peeled for somewhere they'd be able to conceal themselves. For he felt the warmth continue to flow beneath his hand, his life blood seeping between cracks in his fingers, weariness settling into his very bones. He had to find them someplace to stop, to rest, to hide Mary where she would be safe. He had to hold on long enough for that.

OoooOooooOO

Cenisold's thunderous, dark eyes carefully swept the ground in front of his horse's hooves. Every now and then a dark, thick droplet of blood stained a dead leaf or the low branch of a sapling, and his satisfaction grew. They could not hide from him, not for long. He was a hunter, a born predator who'd spent the better portion of his meager life perfecting those innate talents that made him who he was. The bastard born son of the King was strong, resilient, and resourceful, but he was no more than a pup that had yet to be whelped. That he would be the one to bring the boy to bear was all the more satisfying.

It was the fear really, that he craved. The sense of power he got as another human was cowed before him was exhilarating. His men feared him, but it was hardly enough. It wasn't the fear from the hunt, the fear of the unknown. All his men knew the stakes should they fail him. It was the girl. How much terror would he wreak within her once she saw her protector flayed open?

He rode alone through the trees, seeming in no particular hurry at all, his reins draped loosely on his horses neck as Cenisold stayed half bent over his saddle. He'd sent his men ahead, North, to the King's Road, to stop them should they get that far. Not that they would. Cenisold would see to that. He took it personally that they'd managed to get away, though the boy had spared him the trouble of killing the men that had allowed it. Cenisold's lip curled into an ugly sneer. That meant the King's eldest had cost him three men since his abduction, the two the previous evening, and the one that had attempted to lay his hands upon the Queen. He might have let that man live. He understood the wants and desires of men that lived in a way that denied them such comfort. And the Queen of Scots was a pretty thing indeed, dark hair against nubile, alabaster skin. But his man had been caught unaware by a bound, injured prisoner. It was clear to Cenisold that for such dereliction death was the only reprimand.

The trail led him up a small rise, and he leaned forward. Another splash of blood on dead, ochre leaves. There was no missing it now, the spot bigger than the heel of his palm and far brighter than the last. He was getting closer. His hand went absently to the sword strapped over his hip. He guided his horse over the rise and down the bank into the stream. He rode several yards both ways up the stream, but there was no sign of their crossing to the other side. Clever boy. Cenisold turned his horse Northward and sat for a moment. If they had gone that way he could drive them into the waiting arms of his men. But the young Sebastian was no fool. He would not ride into such an obvious trap. Cenisold turned his horse and headed South. Clever or no, it would not be enough to save him.

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The first rays of dawn had only just cracked the Eastern horizon when they found Francis marching swiftly through the halls to the bailey by the stables, the sharp click of his boot heels sending resounding echoes off the empty stone hall in waves. He had his head down, hands clasped tightly behind his back, his teeth worrying a hole into his lower lip. Too long, he thought. Even one single night in the hands of those men, or even alone in unfamiliar woods was too long for Mary to suffer. If anything happened to her, if anyone hurt her... He shook his head. She was with Bash. Bash would see them through, his brother had a knack for things like that.

"You're in quite the hurry," a rich, confident, voice said from behind his left shoulder. Startled, Francis jerked his head up and spun. Lola, her dark, curly tresses contained in a braid that wrapped around her head, lowered her chin and curtsied. "Apologies my Lord, if I startled you."

"You know why I hurry," he said shortly. He saw Lola's eyes widen slightly and he sighed, passing a hand over his face. "Now it is my turn to apologize."

"There is nothing to forgive, My Lord," Lola returned graciously. "You fear for Mary's safety, as do we all. I would expect no less than a sense of urgency from you."

Francis managed a weak smile and resumed walking, Lola falling in step beside him. I was only then she noticed the long riding cloak she wore, the simple lines of her dress, and the strong click of boot heels on stone. He found himself stopped once more, reaching out to grasp Lola's arm, gentle, but firm. "I have a mind to what it is that you consider," he said seriously, his lips pressing thin. "I would not allow it."

"With all respect," Lola's hand pressed gently over Francis'. "Given the option, if not for your father's decree, you would ride out this morning, would you not?"

"Of course," he answered immediately.

"But that option has been stripped from you. It has not been done so from me. Nor, may I remind you, am I one of your subjects. Mary is my Queen, and it is for her that I would do this. An emissary from her country should accompany the search, and since it seems your father has not deemed it necessary to tell Mary's uncle of the situation..." She let the thought linger, waited for Francis to argue, even though there was no argument to be made.

France's Dauphin did not appreciate being backed into a corner, but there was little he could say. It was true, his father had not informed the Duc de Guise of the situation. Still, he could hardly encourage Lola's endeavor. "It is too dangerous," Francis persisted.

Lola laughed then. "Crossing an ocean was dangerous. Life here at French court, is dangerous. Choices I've made, of love I've had, being a woman, is dangerous. Life is not without its perils, and I do not walk blindly into this. Mary is my friend, and Bash also. Allow me to do what you would otherwise, were your hands not bound."

Francis blew out a short breath, a disgruntled grumble accompanying it. But he could see the resolution in Lola's face, a quiet determination he would not easily sway. "The men will not be happy to have you along," he told her seriously.

"Well then, I count myself fortunate that you will be with me to make it a command and not a request," Lola smiled broadly.

"Stay close to the guards," Francis went on. "Keep a bow strung and easily at hand, just in case." He shook his head. "It pains me, that you would ride into danger while I sit around here like a useless fop."

Lola squeezed his hand once more. "It is the price of your station. No one will think less of you. Mary... will not think less of you." Francis appreciated the words, perhaps more than Lola could conceive. His resolve strengthened, they finished their walk to the bailey in silence.

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Time marched on, and the sun slid westward, the brightness of its rays deepening into orange hues as it slanted shadows around them. Mary guessed that it was early afternoon. Ahead of her, Sebastian kept Shade marching stalwartly onward through the stream. She kept her eyes trained in the center of Bash's back, her concern for him growing by the minute. He'd grown quiet over the past few hours, his generally affable and gregarious personality muted. It worried her. Finally, she could hold her tongue no longer.

"We need to stop," she announced. "You have to rest, and we need to remove that arrow."

Bash craned his neck to look at her, blinking slowly. His eyes, already startlingly blue, were almost eerily iridescent against the paleness of his skin. "Soon," he assured, taking care to enunciate the word. "Once we find someplace safe to hide. Your mare is like a beacon in this place. I did not consider her suitability for forest camouflage when I chose her for you." He turned away, eyes carefully scanning the land again.

"When you chose?" Mary questioned from just behind him, surprised. "I thought Francis..."

Bash grimaced, glad Mary couldn't see it. His injury was making him loose with his tongue, not a quality he could afford. "He did," Bash said quickly, trying to climb out from the hole in which he'd so squarely stepped. "Francis knows the horses are a hobby of mine. He asked me to choose a few horses which would be suitable for you, but he chose Estee from the lot." A lie. Francis had asked for help choosing a mount for Mary, but Bash had not given him options. Estee was the horse for Mary, he'd known it surely.

"Oh," Mary said, apparently satisfied with the explanation.

The stream banked right, and the sound of rushing water intensified. As they rounded the corner they could see where the stream flowed into a larger river, water creating white foaming peaks against rocks. The waterway was at least 25 feet across, and flowing swiftly. Clucking with his tongue, Bash urged Shade up the embankment and out of the wash. Mary followed just behind. "We can't cross here," Bash explained. "We'll have to go farther downriver."

No more than a quarter of a mile farther on, the land dipped away in a steep hill. Beside them, water coursed over the edge of a falls, cascading like a pane of glass until it crashed into the ground below, sending a cloudy spray 15 feet in the air. They picked their way down the face, the horses walking mincingly over the steep terrain. The riverbed widened at the base of the falls, creating a wide, shallow pool of tumultuously mixing currents, until it narrowed farther on.

"Whoa," Bash murmured to Shade, pulling the big gelding up. Gritting his teeth, he swung a leg over the cantle of his saddle and dropped heavily to the ground. He could feel the arrow move in his side, stretching and tearing at his flesh and he gasped, nearly collapsing to his knees.

"Bash!" Mary was at his side before he even realized she had stopped, stooping to place her shoulder beneath his good arm, her right hand pressed against his chest.

Bash forced himself to take a deep breath, willing the fogginess in his head to clear. "There," he motioned with his chin toward the falls.

Confused, Mary peered at the water. "I don't understand."

"Trust me," he said, stepping out into the shallows, Mary supporting some of his weight. To her surprise, she realized that she did, implicitly, completely trust him. She couldn't pinpoint the moment it had happened. Perhaps it had been during the disaster with Colin, or his unflagging aid even through injury with Tomas, or maybe it had happened more recently, out in the woods, but it had. As far as anyone in French court, it was Bash whose motivations she did not question, Bash on whom she knew without a doubt she could rely. A flutter of butterfly wings in her chest made her skin tingle.

They pressed close to the cliff wall, the rock slick with moisture. The mist cloud floated up into Mary's nose and eyes, making it hard to see, and making her want to sneeze. The roar of the falls drowned out all else, and they did not speak anymore as they walked. Then Mary saw what Bash had seen. Behind the watery veil of the falls was a dark depression, a cave, one that, upon inspection, was large enough for both horses as well as them. Huffing slightly from the exertion, Bash managed to flash her a smile, blinking droplets of water from his eyelashes. A sheet of water soaked them both as they passed beneath the falls and into the cave. The light inside was murky and uneven, moving like a living thing against the walls.

Mary helped lower Bash onto a large rock. She leaned close to him, her lips brushing by her ear so he could hear. "I'll go get the horses," she told him. Instantly, a protective hand found her arm. She smiled softly at him, her hand briefly cupping his cheek in a moment of reassurance, before she stepped through the curtain of water once more.

By the time Mary convinced both horses to step through the waterfall, she was convinced she had never, at any point in her life, been more wet. Her hair was plastered to her head and her dress felt like it weighed a half ton. She led the horses to the back of the cave and left them. "This is as good a hiding place as we could have found." She said it mostly to convince herself, to help quell the hammering of her heart that had been ongoing for most of the day.

"Agreed. I don't... don't think... he'll find you," Bash's voice was quiet and Mary was beside him quickly.

"Bash!" she exclaimed softly, her heart hammering once more. He looked at her through unfocused eyes. She pried his hand from his side, an easier endeavor now than it had been several hours before. "Us," she murmured soothingly, needing to hear the words as much as Bash. "He won't find us."

So much blood. Her fingers hovered over the top of the arrowhead, indecision coloring her every movement. She knew she had to remove the arrow, but how? "You need to talk to me Bash," she told him. "You need to tell me what to do."

"You need to remove the arrow," Bash said, voice hoarse. "And then staunch the blood."

"Yes, but I have nothing to cauterize the wound."

The eldest son of the King lifted a shaky hand, pointing toward Shade. "My saddle bags," he said. Mary nodded, standing even as she whirled for the horses. Digging around in the bags however, she found nothing but Bash's worn, leather wineskin and some stale biscuits. Suddenly frustrated, she wheeled on him, thrusting the skin before her like an accusation. "This? I hardly think this is the time for wine."

Bash startled to chuckle, but it turned into a pained, raspy cough. "No. Though I should very much like a drink at the moment, that is not its purpose. Come." Still doubtful, Mary approached him slowly, the skin dangling loosely from her fingers. She knelt beside him, waiting.

"There is a battlefield surgeon my father sometimes employs at court," Bash began. "His name is Ambroise Pare. He is... unconventional. He has written journals on his medical theories, unpopular with most. But he writes, that when cauterization is not an option, a wound should be washed in a tincture, usually egg and turpentine, but he has used alcohol as well. He says it aids to hinder infection. You must break the arrow at its head, and pull it out. Then, drench the wound with my wine and bind it as best you can."

Mary looked at the wineskin she held with wonder. "You are a scholar."

Bash's mouth quirked. "Did you think me only a brigand of unsuspecting women?"

"I should remind myself more often not to underestimate you," she echoed his words from earlier that day. "It is a lesson that seems to bear repeating. And no, not a brigand. Careless with your affections perhaps, but no less than a paragon of bravery."

"I will happily accept that assessment of my character, whatever its flaws. Are you ready?" Mary nodded, worrying her lower lip beneath her teeth. Bash nodded to her, and she gripped the fletching of the arrow in one hand, bracing the shaft nearest his side with the other. She pressed down on the blood soaked feathers as hard as she was able, the wooden shaft flexing beneath her fingers. Bash's eyes flew wide, his features standing in sharp bloodless relief on his face. After what seemed an eternity, she heard the wood begin to splinter. Then it snapped. Her eyes flew to Bash's. Eery blue eyes fixed upon hers. "Do it."

Queasiness threatened to overwhelm her, but Mary's constitution was iron. She grasped the arrow head in her left hand and pulled. Beneath her grip, Bash writhed, his fingers rutting furrows on his palms, his teeth clamped down as he suppressed a scream. There was a wet, sucking noise as the arrow slid free, and Mary dropped it as though it were poison. Quickly, she unstoppered the wineskin and dumped most of its contents over the newly opened wound, the deep ruby wine mixing with the bright red wash of new blood. Bash groaned anew, muscles cording in his neck. He was barely conscious as she used his dagger to cut long strips from the skirt of her gown, using the fabric to stuff and bind the wound.

By the time she finished with the bandages, Mary looked like she had dressed in red opera gloves. "it is the best I can do, for the moment," she informed him as she inspected her work. It took her a moment to register that Bash did not reply. His eyes were shut, his chin lolling upon his chest. But his breaths came steady and slow. Mary sighed and eased Bash from his perch upon the rock, til he was lying flat upon his back, his head cradled in her lap. And there, on the damp floor of a cave, she prayed, not for safety or rescue, but for him. Whatever it might mean, she needed him to be all right.

OoOoOOooOo

Chapter 8

Sorry this took so long I was on vacation in the middle of nowhere! Hopefully this is long enough to satisfy the wait. Please let me know what you think!


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